Amos and the violin study one another. They take their time. Amos opens the violin as if peering into small drawers in a printer’s cabinet, one at a time. The violin emerges in segments, fragments of mystery. He sees, from a distance above himself, that the silent violin and the silent zebra have been strung to speak, one drenched in amber, the other in stripes. They take their positions, wait for the music.